There's a store in New York that is called "99 Cent Dreams." I had the most incredible 99 cent dreams last night. There was this off-brand washing detergent and a kazoo sort of worked. That was the dream. I woke up feeling like a hundred bucks.

I’m helicopter skiing but of course they take the helicopter with the propellers that are made of Twizzlers. We crash into the mountain and I realize my skis are made of smaller, thinner people. I have to make a decision. Ski on them, or eat them. It was a hard decision, but I decide to ski on them and eat the power bar I brought with me. I make it down to the base of the mountain but it’s a false base, kind of like a false summit but with more hot chocolate stands. I order 2 hot chocolates, one for me, and one for my left ski, because the right one keeps complaining about my weight. Rude. We decide to try and make it further down, but my high school basketball coach is there and he’s kissing my grade school crush. I demand to know her age and threaten to prosecute him for statutory kissing, and she reveals she’s only 11 but she has a law degree: There is no such thing as statutory kissing.
Infinitely frustrated, I build a small igloo and decide I will spend the night, only to wake up finding I hibernated like a bear for 8 months. Everything is about the same, but my TiVo is full. Then I wake up, but under the bed.

I was at a pool and one of my neighbors from my apartment in Los Angeles was a bomb maker. He assured me he wasn't going to kill me, and started doing cannonballs. We talked about how it was good apartment, cheap, difficult to break into and in the middle of Hollywood. He lived more in the center of the complex because he was making bombs.

I’m playing sand volleyball and I’m gay (obviously). But everyone thinks I’m straight and keeps trying to hook me up with old polish women who are having a bake sale. I can’t buy any of the products because none of them are gluten free. This makes me angry but when I try and yell I simply make a batch of lemon squares. The more I try to yell the more I make lemon squares. One polish woman in particular has taken to me, her name is Perogi, and I’m convinced she’s stuffed with potatoes and cheese. I smear some sour cream on her when she’s not looking but she turns away before I can proceed, and all the other women are impressed by her fashionable use of dairy. Three days later I’m walking by a newsstand and a GQ for teen girls has her on the cover. I curse into the night, and it begins lightly raining whoppers (the candy not the burger king sandwiches). They hurt, and aren’t my favorite candy, but I eat them anyway. I’m ashamed that I consumed something called “malt balls.” Then I wake up.

Something about my fingers getting cut off and there was a really cool guy there I wanted to be friends with. That's about all I remember. I saw Saw IV last night. I've seen Saw II and I'll see Saw III, but I hadn't seen Saw IV. It's pretty gory. That jigsaw is a real enigma.

Last night I had a nightmare. I thought I was crying, but instead I wasn’t…I was going to the bathroom out of my eyes.

It’s the opening night gala of my museum of famous Kevins. Everything is in order, many celebrities are there with various names, when one of my underlings informs me that the signed Waterworld poster is missing. I panic. In my panic I realize that we really only have Kevin Costner artifacts and the Waterworld poster was the centerpiece of the collection. I’m mortified. People begin milling around drinking specialty cocktails suck as the “Kevini Martini” and “Kevin Cosnmo.” Immediately there is a buzz around the museum that it’s a limited collection with “no Waterworld poster.” I overhear someone call me a charlatan and a pinkie ring, but I’m not sure what they mean by the second insult. I cry in a utility closet. When I come out everyone is gone and when I yell out to them, there is an echo, but it has a distinctly feminine tone. Then I wake up yelling, and my voice cracking.